Page 8 of Backhanded Compliments

Juliette doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to talk to Kacic.

“Can we talk?” Kacic asks, her voice wavering.

Juliette rakes her gaze over Kacic. She crosses her arms over her chest.

“I know we started on the wrong foot,” Kacic says.

“Don’t you mean ankle?” Juliette sneers. God, the irony. “You said I only won my 1000 because of Chen’s ankle injury.”

Kacic flinches as if Juliette struck her. “I didn’t mean it like—”

Juliette cuts her off. “And then you took a medical timeout to break my rhythm.”

Kacic blinks. “What? No, I twisted my ankle. It’s not like that. None of that is like that.” She looks… hurt. It’s strange to see it peek through the usual smooth, impassive shell she wears. “Whatever. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we’re—”

“Don’t say it, Kacic,” Juliette hisses, cutting her off. As a kid, she never worried about finding her soulmate because her parents were madly in love and perfect together, despite not having each other’s name on their wrist. Tennis became the love of her life at a young age, and all she’s ever wanted is to be the best—to win Grand Slams and be number one, even if for a brief moment. Tennis success is so fleeting, and for a second, Juliette had it within her grasp. But now? She’s lost the biggest tournament of her life, and she’s cosmically tied to the woman who beat her for the Australian Open title.

“But—” Kacic starts, but Juliette shakes her head.

“I don’t want this. I didn’t choose this, oryou, so just fuck off, Kacic.”

Kacic’s mouth falls open, and she blinks rapidly. She looks shell-shocked, sputtering as she tries to find words to refute Juliette.

But Juliette won’t be beaten again. She grabs her bags and slings them over her arm, storming out of the locker room on bare feet. The door creaks as it shuts, leaving Kacic alone with her trophy.

It isn’t until Juliette makes it back to her hotel room that the numbness breaks and her eyes sting with tears. She buries her head under the pillows and lets herself sob. Luckily, none of her sisters come and try to comfort her. They will in the morning, commiserating over the loss with room service waffles. Sure, Octavia and Claudia have lost Grand Slam finals in the past, but never to their soulmate. This is a specific kind of humiliation that burns in Juliette’s throat.

Before the match, Juliette knew she wanted to beat Kacic, ofcourse, but her need to bebetternow runs far deeper, burrows into the marrow of her bones.

Juliette forces herself out of bed and to the desk. She knows what she’s doing is childish, but she grabs the marker out of the drawer and scribbles over the name on her wrist. And for a moment, she feels lighter. She knows it will wash off, but she also knows she doesn’t have to be with her soulmate. She may not be able to control who her soulmate is, but she can control her career. Sheneeds, more than air and water, to win.

And she will. No matter what it costs.

FIVEJULIETTE

Two and half weeks after the horrific Australian Open final, Juliette loses to Kacic again in the quarterfinal in Dubai.

It is a humiliating loss. One that Juliette would be ashamed of if she wasn’t so sick. She coughs and sneezes her way through the match, her lungs burning whenever she has to run too much. At least it gives her an excuse to keep the handshake at the net brief, if anyone in the press asks about it. Still, as Kacic’s hand, slick with sweat, clasps hers for a brief moment, lightning knifes through her veins. A wave of tingles sprawls from her palm across her body. For a moment, the ache in her neck and the stuffiness in her nose eases.

“Hope you feel better,” Kacic says, her gaze pinned above Juliette’s head. Juliette lets go of Kacic’s hand to sneeze into her elbow.

Phantom tingles linger as Juliette goes through the abbreviated steps of her postmatch routine. It reminds her of the TV-static feeling after lying on her arm too long. A shimmer of pins and needles whenever she flexes her fingers.

She blames the feeling on her fever.

Juliette is still sick when she arrives in Mexico to play the Monterrey 500. She watches the replay of Kacic’s match, skipping straight to where Kacic loses the tight third set tiebreaker. It should be satisfying to see her rival lose, but it only makes envy swirl in her chest alongside the raucous cough. It should beshewho beats Kacic, not some young upstart barely old enough to drive. She smacks her laptop closed and fluffs the starchy hotel pillow beneath her cheek. When sleep eludes her and boredom makes her too acutely aware ofher own misery, she opens her phone. A message from Antony drops in; a strategy document about her first round match.

Juliette ignores it in favor of Twitter.

On the top of her feed is a post from Kacic’s brand-new account. With a considerable amount of likes and reposts, it’s clear the algorithm thinks this is the perfect content for Juliette to consume.

Unlike most players, Kacic only made a Twitter after the Australian Open. Most likely to soak in all the praise from fans after she showed her resilience and beat Juliette through an injured ankle. Which clearly wasn’t that bad if Kacic kept winning in the tournaments after Australia. Juliette clenches her jaw as anger roils in her again, and pain shoots through her ear because of her headache.

She clicks on Kacic’s post, curious about the responses to it. She has to click the translate button, since Kacic wrote it in Croatian.

@luca_kacic

Congratulations to my fellow countrywoman @lana_ivankovic! You played incredibly today, and I hope we share the court many more times. Good luck in the rest of the tournament! Amazing night for Croatian tennis!

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